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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/26277616">darling, I've just left the bar (sweet surrender)</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/gabrielgoodman/pseuds/gabrielgoodman'>gabrielgoodman</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Present Laughter - Coward</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Andrew Scott - Freeform, Character Study, Coda, Gen, Post-Canon, The Old Vic Revival (2019)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-09-04</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-09-04</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-06 06:27:17</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>General Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>1,912</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/26277616</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/gabrielgoodman/pseuds/gabrielgoodman</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>“Africa,” Fred says as he comes up to him on deck. He’s got his hands shoved into the pockets of his woolen pants, a smart choice; as always Garry stands correct in his assumption that this voyage would be a dreadful, dreary nightmare. It is only sensible to wear the proper attire. He must know, after all he’s been practically freezing to death since they’ve left England and they haven’t even gotten close to Africa yet.</i>
</p><p>  <i>Africa. Whatever there may be for him.</i></p><p>  <i>“Yes, Fred,” Garry eventually relents, “Africa. Don’t you dare tell me too, no one has been able to shut up about it for months now. Haven’t you noticed?”</i></p><p>-</p><p>garry makes the journey to africa, after all.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Garry Essendine &amp; Fred (Present Laughter)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>6</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>darling, I've just left the bar (sweet surrender)</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>it has been more than a year, and i have yet to stop thinking about the old vic's revival of present laughter with andrew scott as garry essendine. i was lucky enough to see the play front row whilst i was in london and it was quite the magical experience; this, i've started writing after i saw it screened via national theatre live. the show still hasn't left my mind. </p><p>in the 2019 old vic revival some parts have been gender swapped - henry is now helen, joanna is joe - and if i remember correctly there have been made adjustments to the end. </p><p>this is simply a coda to the revival production. i wrote this in the full knowledge that maybe two people will read this, at most, so it is mainly incredibly self indulgent. what can i say, i love andrew scott to death to be quite honest.</p><p>note: the africa journey is a reoccurring motif in the play. if you have seen it, you will know (which i assume you have when reading this). i wanted<br/>to expand on that and the changes garry might have gone through immediately after the proceedings of the show. here, they actually <i>are</i> on said africa journey, after all. </p><p>as always: i am not a native speaker, so apologies for any mistakes beforehand; this hasn't seen a beta reader either, so i will go back in and clear those up later, usually once i notice them. </p><p>title: halsey - 3am; original title of present laughter.</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>“Africa,” Fred says as he comes up to him on deck. He’s got his hands shoved into the pockets of his woolen pants, a smart choice; as always Garry stands correct in his assumption that this voyage would be a dreadful, dreary nightmare. It is only sensible to wear the proper attire. He must know, after all he’s been practically freezing to death since they’ve left England and they haven’t even gotten close to Africa yet.</p><p>Africa. Whatever there may be for him.</p><p></p><div>
  <p>“Yes, Fred,” Garry eventually relents, “<em>Africa</em>. Don’t you dare tell me too, no one has been able to shut up about it for months now. Haven’t you noticed?”</p>
</div><div>
  <p>Only one corner of Fred’s lips tugs upwards, not quite a smirk but something mischievous working up to it. Garry has always thought Fred as quite .... reckless, if you will. Not involved in the whole eerie, fantastical, ridiculous spectacle of his life but rather simply assuming the role of spectator, and it does serve him well. He looks better with his hands clean and ah, there, a beautiful juxtaposition. Garry seems to be the only one who’s got blood on his fingers, while he’s simply been trying to mend things and live his life and – does it ever really matter? He supposes not.</p>
</div><div>
  <p>He supposes everyone is quite happy where they are as long as he keeps on dancing his little dance.</p>
</div><div>
  <p>“You know Fred, in a way you’re the only one whom I agreed upon joining me in the first place,” Garry says then, aloud, and he turns his head to look at his .... Yeah, what exactly, his valet? His butler, his servant? It all sounds impossible to Garry though he knows he’d be lost without Fred, Fred and Monica. Without them, his life would fall apart; this feeble construction hinges on the faithful portrayal of their assigned roles, and while Monica keeps his schedule in check, it is the little things Fred does – how he reigns the others in when they want to wake him in the ungodly hours of morning, and lets him sleep, how he doesn’t have to ask and simply accepts all those little quirks, how even the simple act of pouring him a bath seems to take some of the weight off Garry’s chest and has him breathe more freely – it is those things that have him fall asleep easier at night.</p>
</div><div>
  <p>With Fred, he doesn’t have to try or <em>be</em> anything.</p>
</div><div>
  <p>“Maybe it’s because being with you is quite .... liberating. Of course, you shouldn’t hold that too close to your heart, telling you how much I depend on you will do you all matters of terrible, <em>horrible</em> good, won’t it? I see it in your smug little smirk,” Garry’s almost smiling himself; this is sort of entertaining. The Atlantic is very still, the sea so very calm, and Fred isn’t saying a word in response besides him. They’re both staring at the ocean, two men shoulder by shoulder, Garry’s, as always, coming up short, quite literally.</p>
</div><div>
  <p>“In all due respect, sir, and I don’t want ya’ stop singing my praises, but why?” Fred looks at him briefly before diverting his gaze back onto what’s in front of them. Good for him. Garry doesn’t know if he could handle Fred looking at him right now as this whole matter is becoming rather embarrassing.</p>
</div><div>
  <p>“Why <em>what</em>? Why <em>now</em>? Can’t a man just be – grateful for one minute that there’s one person in his life that is not a lunatic? I tell you, it is most riveting.”</p>
</div><div>
  <p>Fred chuckles and Garry finds that he has expected a reaction of that sort.</p>
</div><div>
  <p>“But Miss, or Mrs. Essendine is it again now? Isn’t she quite alright, sir?”</p>
</div><div>
  <p>Garry snorts and rolls his eyes, “Oh, call me Garry, Fred. We’ve known each other long enough, and as for Liz, well, she’s Liz. She’s always been Liz and she’ll always be Liz and everyone knows it. I love her, quite madly most days but ....” He sighs heavily, “She’ll do what is best for the firm.”</p>
</div><div>
  <p>He wishes he’d have a drink in hand right now, it would make this conversation go far more smoothly than how it is transpiring presently but cocktail hour isn’t until later, and he doesn’t want to send Fred off to fetch him something. It would be unjust to dismiss him like this after they’ve been talking the way they have, almost cruel. Garry doesn’t want to be cruel anymore, he’s spent the first forty years of his life drenched in small cruelties.</p>
</div><div>
  <p>“And do you? Do what is best for the firm, I mean,” Fred asks, his tone carefully neutral and mild.</p>
</div><div>
  <p>The question is surprising to Garry.</p>
</div><div>
  <p>Of course, he wants to say. Of course, everything that he does is for the firm, he is devoted to the firm, he <em>is</em> the firm, why wouldn’t his choices depend on the well-being of the firm? But that isn’t quite true now, is it. The choices he makes are still his own; he is an actor, a celebrity, selfish by definition when all he really wants is a little peace of mind and quiet, maybe, for once, to not always be in demand, but never <em>lonely</em>.</p>
</div><div>
  <p>Loneliness is the ghost curling around his throat in the dark of the night, seeking out strangers.</p>
</div><div>
  <p>“Most times I would think I do, yeah. Most of my life I have,” he answers as honestly as he can eventually, after a deliberate, conscious pause. If he <em>is</em> the firm, then Garry knows he has damaged more than just his own welfare with the million little antics accumulating behind his back, under his own thumb; Shelley or Hamlet, it doesn’t matter to him as much as it used to or maybe not as much as it should. What does he know, really? Nothing, everything of sorts, but never enough. He is well versed in self-sabotage, though.</p>
</div><div>
  <p>He is Caesar; he is going to be stabbed by those closest to him. In some ways, he ponders as the ocean puts ever more distance between him and his homeland, he already has been.</p>
</div><div>
  <p>
    <em>Et tu, brute?</em>
  </p>
</div><div>
  <p>On his way to <em>Exile</em>. A heart buried on an island. Napoleon and him are so alike, after all.</p>
</div><div>
  <p>Fred passes him a glance, observant to a fault, seemingly at peace with the proceedings, his current whereabouts, and the universe at large. But he appears to be so at any given time, it isn’t anything special; for some reason, there is never anything stirring or troubling him, unlike Garry, who is troubled and stirred by anything and anyone. A miserable existence, that is. God forbid he should ever enjoy any day; with the passing of time and the years going by, he has lost any sense of joy for the life he has been leading. Performing for the world, like an omnipresent leading man.</p>
</div><div>
  <p>All the world’s a stage, indeed.</p>
</div><div>
  <p>“Either you don’t give yourself enough credit or too much, sir. <em>Garry</em>, I mean. Never in between,” Fred points out then.</p>
</div><div>
  <p>Garry actually huffs. What can he say, he swings between the extremes.</p>
</div><div>
  <p>“You aren’t only dreadfully immoral, you are also terrifyingly honest,” he drawls, bemused. This doesn’t go unnoticed; the slight smirk he has detected earlier grows under his gaze, slow and deliberate, and it makes Fred rather dashing to be frank, with the sun warming his face, freckles appearing one by one and tinting his cheeks. Garry has never noticed before, the slope of Fred’s shoulder, the line of his nose, the remains of youth clinging to him in a way that has never possessed Garry himself, but has always been coating his ever-growing list of conquests. As if sex could be a fountain of youth, some elixir to keep him young.</p>
</div><div>
  <p>The ache in his back and his knees argues against that assumption, Garry has only never cared to pay too much attention to it, or to <em>listen</em>.</p>
</div><div>
  <p>He allows his eyes to wander now, in their silent solitude, with no one to interrupt or call him out for whatever he is doing here – it is <em>at least</em> highly unethical, for Pete’s sake. He is Fred’s employer. He should know better than to give in to such fantastical whims like these.</p>
</div><div>
  <p>“You keep me honest, sir.” Fred shrugs, eyes still towards the horizon, Garry firmly transfixed by the vision of those pale hands and slender fingers curled around the railing now. This voyage is doing awful things to him already and he has yet to step foot on any god forsaken land; it is punishment, he is sure, Helen and Morris and Liz, they all want to punish him for a wrongdoing of their choosing, the whole lot each having something equally horrendous on their minds no doubt, and here he is paying the price.</p>
</div><div>
  <p>He doesn’t even hate this trip, or heaven knows Africa, <em>per se</em>. Or at all. Currently, it simply serves as a metaphor for the wretched state of his life while there is nothing else to occupy the vast, vast emptiness in it. </p>
</div><div>
  <p>“I told you to call me Garry,” is all he replies, finally tearing his gaze away, and fixing it back on the sky, blue and clear and cloudless; he wished for overcast gloom, but of course there is no such luck. The world, as always, is conspiring against him.</p>
</div><div>
  <p>“Yes,” Fred agrees solemnly, “I know. That will take some time, though.” He takes a step back, and almost bows, but that wouldn’t be Fred, and they both know if. Instead, he reaches out and squeezes Garry’s upper arm which he has never, ever done before and is a premiere. Does he look that pathetic? It leaves him speechless. “Sir.”</p>
</div><div>
  <p>Garry turns, and he is watching Fred leave, becoming a receding figure in his line of vision, his back lit by the bright haze of the sunlight, more golden the closer they get to the equator, or so it seems. Everything isn’t what it appears to be, and still it is exactly what it appears to be. He is an actor and he isn’t, <em>acting is an escape from acting</em>. This is an escape from acting as well, in some way then, impossibly so. He inhales the fresh air, unpolluted unlike the thick London fog that clogs his lungs whenever he steps into the streets of the dimly lit city. Here, on sea, there is so much space, so much light, so much freedom, why does he feel like a prisoner regardless then, shackled by money and force and a sick addiction to his own magnitude.</p>
</div><div>
  <p>“Fred!” He calls after him, and miraculously, the other man, who is almost at the door, turns his head to catch Garry’s heavy eyes. He almost smiles, even from the distance it is visible; <em>maybe his eyesight isn’t as fleeting as his hairline then</em>.</p>
</div><div>
  <p>“I would be lost without you.” Garry’s voice is carried by the breeze, luckily, so he doesn’t have to repeat himself, one of those things he hates doing because only morons don’t listen and prompt him to repeat himself, and it is a pain and an annoyance, most of all.</p>
</div><div>
  <p>“Likewise,” Fred answers, his head inclined. It’s the last thing Garry sees of him, for he just as soon is swallowed by the shadows of the inside of the ship, leaving Garry to his own devices again.</p>
</div><div>
  <p>But for once, it doesn’t feel as lonely as it usually does.</p>
</div>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>hmu on twitter if you read this obscure piece of writing @richardrmadden</p></blockquote></div></div>
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